CHAPTER 57
Her fingers fly across the keyboard, mouse clicking like her iced coma-in-a-cup is refilling with every tap.
"What the fuck are you doing?" I whisper-yell, bracing on the counter. "We need a warrant, Paty."
"You think I don’t know that?" she whisper-yells louder. She might as well shout.
She pauses, blue eyes locked on the screen.
They really are a beautiful shade.
"Ugh, two minutes," she mutters, panic rising. "Oh, cheeseburgers, we need a distraction."
She looks at the hall. Then at me.
I raise my hands. "What do you want me to do?"
"I don’t know!" she hisses, pointing. "Go be sexy!"
I groan, low and miserable, but round the corner anyway—just in time to catch the receptionist at the bathroom door, already annoyed.
When she sees me, she brightens like a kid about to get the pony she’s been screaming for since Christmas.
I lean one shoulder against the frame, arms crossed. Or what passes for casual when you're one bad moment away from chewing your own arm off.
Her eyes drop to my biceps.
Predictable.
“Thought I’d come see if you needed any help.” I lower my voice—rough, suggestive—like we’re sharing some filthy secret.
“Mmm.” She situates her breasts like they’re her only asset. Flirting, nipples first. Personality second.
“A gentleman,” she purrs, stepping closer. “And so strong.”
Her hand rubs up my arm, thumb dragging over the muscle.
Someone. Fucking. Shoot me.
“You have quite the… physique.”
One more step, and those flirty nipples are nearly grazing my chest.
“Let me take you to dinner,” I say, dragging my eyes down her body and back up again—slow, deliberate. “And afterward...” I pause, letting the filth hang, “you can get betteracquaintedwith my physique.”
She damn near creams her panties.
“Let me just,” She runs a fingernail down my arm, cold as death. “get you my number.”
She finds a pen, scribbles on a sticky note, and slides her palm up my chest in a move so rehearsed it’s almost sad.
I grit my teeth and hold the line.
Another minute. Just another goddamn minute.
She tucks the note into my pocket. “I’m Miranda.”
Salvation arrives in the form of the front door opening with a cheerful chime.
She steps away with a fresh eyeroll, cheeks pink.
I back off like she’s radioactive.
“I’ve got to get up there.”
“By all means.” I gesture for her to walk ahead.
She does more of the hip-swaying thing down the hall.
When she slides behind her desk, she gives Paty a look that saysI’ll be fucking your man before dessert is served.
What a bitch.
I glance toward the door.
Paty’s standing there, arms crossed, one hip cocked like she’s two seconds from launching a shoe at my head.
She looks… fucking amazing.
Head-to-toe pink, hair perfect, makeup flawless—even when she’s pissed enough to pummel me with her fake-engagement ring.
The look she’s giving me? Full-on jealous fiancée about to cause a scene.
And I’ll be damned if a sick part of me doesn’t like it.
I let her stare me down longer than necessary—let her stew—then slide an arm around her waist.
She stiffens for half a second, then recovers, tossing her hair and flashing a brittle, syrupy smile.
“If you’re not too distracted,” she says brightly, loud enough for the receptionist to hear, “we’re going to be late for our hot yoga class.”
The receptionist—poor, deluded thing—puffs up like she just won a prize, batting her lashes like she’s already planning our imaginary hookup.
Paty catches it.
Her eyes narrow, one brow lifting in a way that promises bloodshed, and I can’t tell if she’s still playing or if it’s real.
“I can’t wait, darling.”
I tighten my arm around her and steer us toward the door, tossing the receptionist a grin sharp enough to cut glass.
Outside, the sunlight slams into us.
Paty yanks out of my grip with a huff, marching ahead.
“Well, you played that off a little too well.”
She’s halfway down the block before I catch up—after tossing the number in the trash and wondering, not for the first time, how the fuck I went from respected detective to undercover fiancé to Manhattan’s angriest Disney princess.
And worse?
Wondering why the hell I don’t mind.
I’m nailing this.
This wholelook naturalthing? I deserve an award.
I’m sitting upright, hands folded around a delicate porcelain teacup like a well-adjusted woman who definitely did not kill a man last night and then get strapped into a spreader bar and eaten out by the masked stalker who’s been following her for weeks.
Nope.
Just a regular girl.
Having a regular lunch.
Definitely not wearing the clothes said stalker left on a chair with a note that said,Be my good girl. I’ll be watching.
And absolutely not wondering why it’s been radio silence since.
I’m even making eye contact like a professionally not-deranged person.
Across the table, Roger’s scrolling through his phone, brow furrowed like he’s thinking about something serious and not—say—how I gutted a predator behind a locked door last night.
Kill or be killed.
Again.
And just like Travis, this man must have left a trail behind him. Girls who fought back and lost.
And what I did made sure he won’t hurt anyone else.